


a thousand shitty tequila shots (of love)

by remy (iamremy)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Art, Background Steve/Tony, First Meetings, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Meet-Cute, Sam throwing napkins is mentioned, Winterhawk Big Bang 2016, it doesn't happen in the fic sorry, mentioned Bruce/Natasha, mentioned former Clint/Bobbi, references to the Hawkeye comics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-17
Updated: 2016-09-17
Packaged: 2018-08-13 06:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7965319
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iamremy/pseuds/remy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A cute guy walks into Bucky's bar, gets shitfaced and tells him all about his little Eurasian mafia problem, and then bestows his number upon him. Bucky is fascinated, intrigued, interested (plus other synonyms)... and also a little bit in love. Bonus: Natasha is 40592% done, Tony is a generous drunk, and Sam throws a lot of napkins at Bucky.</p>
            </blockquote>





	a thousand shitty tequila shots (of love)

**Author's Note:**

> Sooo this is my first Winterhawk fic, though I've been in love with this ship for ages. I think it might actually be my #1 MCU ship (along with Steve/Tony ofc). Anyway, this is my submission for the Winterhawk Big Bang 2016, and I hope you guys like it!
> 
> Art is done by the incredibly talented and lovely [maesonc](http://maesonc.tumblr.com)! I love you to pieces omg.

It’s a slow night at the bar, which isn’t exactly rare, but isn’t exactly common either. Bucky is serving and refilling drinks at the counter, occasionally glancing towards Steve, who is sitting in a corner with his sketchbook. He also has one eye on the highlights from last night’s game playing on the TV in the corner, the sound hidden under layers of conversations and the occasional drunk patron trying his hand at being the next Justin Bieber or whatever the shit.

There are like maybe ten or fifteen other people, which isn’t a lot usually, but it’s enough to keep the place somewhat busy and the ambience pleasantly noisy. Bucky has a couple of moments free right now – he’s just served another round to the largest group in the place – and so he uses the time to gather up his hair and tie it in a small bun at the base of his neck. He tries to get it all, but some stubborn strands still slip free, and he makes an angry sound in the back of his throat before trying again.

The second time works out marginally better than the first one, though not that much. He’s just about to try for the third time when the door opens and one of the regulars comes in, a guy with short blond hair and blue eyes that Bucky’s never really spoken to other than “Whiskey coming right up.” Bucky doesn’t know his name, doesn’t know much about him except that he evidently owns only like three shirts, and they’re all some horrific combination of white and purple. Oh, and also he’s hard of hearing – he occasionally wears hearing aids, and Bucky assumes he knows how to read lips as well, because even on the days he wasn’t wearing his hearing aids, he still managed to understand what was being said to him.

“The usual?” asks Bucky when the guy reaches the counter and sits up on one of the stools, his elbows on the bar top. The usual is whiskey, though sometimes he has beer as well. Depends on his day, Bucky thinks – he orders beer when he’s relaxed, which seems to be rare.

The guy nods. “Actually, you know what,” he says a moment later, stopping Bucky in his tracks. “Just – just give me like a thousand shots of whatever you have that’s strong as fuck.”

Bucky shrugs. “All right.” He pours a couple of shots of their strongest tequila and slides them over to the guy, who immediately downs one and then grimaces.

“Jesus, this tastes like shit,” he says, and then, “I want like a thousand.”

Bucky nods, somewhat amused at this trainwreck of a man, but also a little concerned. Mostly amused, though. “Yeah, so you said.”

The guy downs five more shots, and then says, speech beginning to slur, “Okay, okay, I admit it. I was wrong. Take this shit away from me before I vomit.”

“So no more tequila?”

“Oh God, never again.”

Bucky snorts. “Didn’t take you for a tequila man.” He’s not sure why he’s making conversation with this guy. Probably because he’s bored and Steve’s buried deep in his sketch, and will probably kill whoever disturbs him now.

“I’m not,” groans the guy. “Give me beer or whiskey, or give me nothing.”

“I think nothing is a safe choice right now,” Bucky says. “You’re buzzed already; if you get any drunker you won’t be able to go home.”

“That’s probably best right now,” the guy says, and Bucky doesn’t know which part of his sentence he’s agreeing to. That’s okay, though – the guy elaborates without being asked, which is probably a side effect of the tequila; he doesn’t look the talkative type either.

“I fucked up, man,” he tells Bucky, looking morosely at him with wide blue eyes. “You know like when you’re trying to be a big damn hero and then you end up fucking it up and then you’re screwed?”

Bucky blinks the images of war away, and nods. “Yeah.” His throat feels a little constricted at the sudden flash of memory he’s just experienced, but he wills himself to remain calm and relaxed. He’s just glad Steve isn’t watching this exchange; the last thing he needs is for Steve to lose his shit all over the place.

“So I did that,” the guy groans, dropping his head into his arms. “And now there’s like this gang of, I don’t even know, Russian? Vaguely Eurasian? Ugh, I don’t know, but they’re gangsters or some shit and they want my ass dead.”

“Why?” This sounds like an interesting story. Bucky sets down a glass of water in front of the guy and leans against the counter, beginning to properly pay attention.

“Because the landlord of my building wanted to evict my neighbor, who’s like this really sweet lady with adorable kids, and I told him to fuck off. So he told me if I had a problem, _I_ should fuck off. So I bought the building from him and told her she can stay. And now the vaguely Eurasian gangsters – who all dress in tracksuits, by the way, can you even fucking believe? – are pissed because _they_ wanted to buy the building and then demolish it for some nefarious purpose, probably.”

Bucky blinks at the sudden onslaught of words – and at the fact that this guy actually said the word “nefarious” in actual, verbal conversation, who even does that? – and then says, “That sounds…. absurd.”

“I shit you not, it’s actually happening,” the guy tells him, looking up at him from where his chin is resting on his folded arms. “I wouldn’t be trying to get shitfaced if it wasn’t.”

Bucky is just about to state that it doesn’t even sound like a real story, it’s too damn over the top, but then the door opens again and a redhead that he’s seen once or twice with the guy enters, makes a beeline for the bar and sits down next to the guy, saying in a very irate tone, “ _Clinton Fucking Barton, did you seriously just piss off the gangsters again?”_

Bucky is taken aback for only a moment, before composing himself and interjecting a dry, “Apparently he did.”

The redhead turns fiery green eyes on him. “Why do you know this?”

“Because he’s drunk and telling me all about it,” Bucky replies.

“CLINT,” she admonishes.

The guy – Clint, it would seem – groans yet again and buries his face in his arms. “My middle name isn’t _Fucking_ ,” he says, voice muffled.

“It begins with an F,” the redhead answers frostily. “I’m not dragging your ass out of this mess, Barton.”

He looks up. “I thought you loved me,” he complains.

“Not right now I don’t,” she tells him. “What did he drink?”

It takes Bucky a second to realize she’s talking to him. “Uh, about a thousand shots of our strongest tequila,” he answers.

“And you _let_ him?” she demands.

“He’s a customer,” Bucky says defensively. “He orders, I serve, then he pays. You _are_ going to pay, right?” he adds, turning to Clint.

Clint mumbles something that Bucky doesn’t quite catch, but he does hear “fucking” and “tab”, and so, satisfied, he turns to the redhead. “He’ll pay… eventually.”

The redhead still doesn’t look satisfied. “You breathe a word of whatever he told you to anyone else, I’ll end you,” she threatens him. “I can do it, too. You don’t want to find out.”

He raises an eyebrow. She’s short and slender, and looks relatively harmless. “What are you going to do, glare at me?” he asks her, amused.

She looks at him, considering him. The staring is a little weird at first, but it soon becomes unnerving. It feels like she’s cataloguing every single thought that’s going through his mind, looking for weaknesses. “Okay, okay,” he says, throwing up his hands. “Not a word leaves here.”

She nods. “Good.”

“Dammit, Nat,” sighs Barton, whom Bucky’s forgotten exists in the past few moments. “Stop threatening literally every new person I meet. Then you complain I don’t have any other friends.”

The redhead – Nat – glares at him, and he sighs. “I’m gonna need more alcohol,” he mumbles.

“No,” say Bucky and Nat together.

“Can you get him home?” Bucky asks Nat.

She sighs and nods. “Yeah, if I have to.” She shoots Clint a glare; he ignores it, because he’s too busy writing something on a napkin.

“What’s that?” asks Bucky, looking down at it.

“It’s my number,” Clint tells him. “I figure if I’m going to be killed by badly dressed Eurasians in the near future, the least I should do is like, live with no regrets or whatever it is that people do when they’re about to die soon.”

“You won’t die,” sighs Nat.

“I will,” Clint refutes gloomily. Then he brightens. “Call me,” he grins at Bucky. It’s sort of adorable, even though he’s clearly shitfaced.

Bucky considers him. Messy blond hair, skin ruddy from the alcohol but obviously tan under that, eyes blue as the damn sky and a mouth that looks kissable as fuck. He shrugs. “What the fuck, why not?” he says. “If you’re alive.”

“If I’m alive,” agrees Clint. “What’s your name?” he asks a moment later, as if realizing it’s silly to get a man to call but not know his name.

Bucky snorts. “Bucky.”

“Bucky,” repeats Clint. Bucky decides he rather likes how it sounds on the guy. “That’s cute. It rhymes with lucky. Which is my dog’s name.”

Nat facepalms.

There is a pause in the conversation as Steve approaches the bar, holding his empty beer bottle. “Hey, Buck, I was thinking another one – oh,” he says, noticing Clint and Nat. “Friends?”

“This is Clint, and I think her name is Nat?” Bucky says. “I mean, he called her Nat.”

“Natasha,” the redhead elaborates, smiling sweetly at Steve like she hasn’t just threatened both Bucky and Clint a few minutes prior.

“This is my best friend, Steve,” Bucky tells them. “He’s a punk.”

“Hi, Steve,” says Natasha.

“Steve rhymes with leave,” declares Clint. “Which is what I should do, before I get drunk.”

Bucky snorts as he takes Steve’s empty bottle. “I’d say it’s too late for that, pal.”

“Really?” Clint looks disappointed in himself. “Aww, no.”

“Clint here just gave me his number,” Bucky informs Steve, handing him a beer.  “Says if he’s going to die soon, he should live in the moment.”

Steve looks concerned. “Die soon?” Clearly he assumes Clint has something horrible like cancer or something, because he immediately says, looking contrite, “Oh, I’m so sorry, that is awful.”

“Oh, he’s not ill,” Natasha says, correctly interpreting the look on Steve’s face. “He’s just an idiot.”

“I wasn’t aware that’s terminal,” Steve says, looking relieved. There’s a hint of a grin on his face.

Clint groans into his arms. “I hate everyone,” he says. “Except you,” he adds to Bucky. “You’re hot. In a broody sort of way.”

“Thank you,” says Bucky drily; he’s quite used to drunk customers complimenting him. The only difference is that no one’s ever told him his name rhymes with that of their dog, before. He’s not sure how to feel about that. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” he tells Clint. “I usually begin ignoring people at this point.”

Clint beams. “You think I’m cute?”

“You need to get home,” Natasha says firmly, grasping Clint’s upper arm. “Come on, Barton. Get up.”

“But I don’t wanna go,” Clint says, sounding dangerously whiny. “I’ll be killed by the vaguely Eurasian tracksuit gangsters!”

“By the _who_?” asks Steve, looking bewildered.

Before Clint can begin elaborating, Natasha, in a show of strength that surprises both Bucky and Steve, bodily drags him off the bar stool and grabs him before he falls over. “Enough,” she tells him, in the sort of tone that suggests it’s not the first time she’s had to do this. “Stay over at mine, tonight. Tomorrow, you’re going and fixing this mess. Got it?”

“Yes, Mama,” mumbles Clint, looping an arm around her neck as she winds one around his waist to keep him steady. She’s about a head shorter than him and fifty pounds lighter, but manages him wonderfully, and again Bucky has the idea that she’s done this before.

They leave, and he watches the odd pair go, wondering who she is to him. She can’t be his girlfriend, since he just gave his number to Bucky. Sister? Friend? Colleague? The familiarity between them suggests one of the former two; Bucky would put his money on best friend, if pressed to. The way they interact is somewhat reminiscent of the way he interacts with Steve.

Who snaps his fingers in Bucky’s face, getting his attention. He looks wryly amused as Bucky turns to look at him. “You like the guy,” he states, nodding towards the door where Clint’s just left with Natasha.

Bucky shrugs. “He’s cute, he gave me his number, I figured, why the hell not?”

“I think it’ll be good for you,” Steve declares. “You need to go out more. And don’t tell me you come here,” he adds. “Work doesn’t count.”

“How’ll it be good for me?” asks Bucky, just to be contrary. “The guy literally got his ass involved with the fucking mafia.”

Steve, surprisingly, doesn’t look fazed or put off. “So?” he asks. “Tony did that once,” he reminds Bucky, referring to his own boyfriend. “Remember?”

“Tony,” Bucky says emphatically, “is a billionaire who can afford to pay someone to protect his ass. And who is also dating _you_. That guy?” He nods towards the door like Steve just did. “That guy owns like three shirts. He drives an old ass Mustang. His jeans have holes in them.”

Steve shrugs. “The girl, Natasha. She looks like she could handle it, though.”

“She looks like she could kill a few men in her sleep,” Bucky says. He hums thoughtfully. “She could be useful to have around.”

Steve grins. “Please, you’re only saying that because you want her friend around. I see you, James Buchanan Barnes, I see you.”

“Go drink your beer and draw your stick figures, punk,” grumbles Bucky, shooing him off.

* * *

Just before bed, he takes out the napkin with the phone number from his pocket and stares at it, wondering what he should do with it. The guy’s definitely cute. He’s interesting. He seems an all-round okay guy, honestly. And Steve’s right (as usual) – it would do Bucky good to get out more, have some fun, instead of sit at home all day and mope, or work and mope.

But.

Things haven’t been easy since he and Steve have come back from the war. Bucky hasn’t been sleeping well, and the slightest thing can set him off. He’s not sure he’s the best company to be around. Sure, he’s going to therapy, and the PTSD isn’t as bad as it used to be, but he’s not sure if he’s ready to be going out with someone just yet.

It’s not as hard for Steve – Steve has Tony, Steve has someone to go to when his nightmares become too much. He spends most of his nights at Tony’s place, and it’s only a matter of time before they move in together. He has his art and his crazy boyfriend to keep him distracted; Bucky has nothing except for work and a couple of books that he’s read around a thousand times.

So maybe he really should call Clint. For the distraction if nothing else.

Mind made up, he programs the number into his Starkphone (a gift from Tony), and saves it under “Clint Fucking Barton”.

* * *

He doesn’t have to go into work until afternoon the next day, so he fixes himself breakfast and then decides to call Clint. It’s around ten a.m., and he has no idea if Clint’s going to be awake or not. Probably he’s hungover. Bucky stares at the number in his phone for around a minute or so, before putting it back in his pocket.

The next time it occurs to him to call is around noon. He’s listlessly going through channels on his TV, not really paying attention, bored out of his damn mind, and it occurs to him that Clint’s probably awake by now, and hopefully sober enough to have a proper conversation with. So he takes out his phone, and he calls.

It goes through after five rings, and Bucky is answered a grouchy with, “Who the hell is this?”

“It’s Bucky,” he says. “From the bar.”

There is a pause, and then a groan. “Aww, fuck. I gave you my number, didn’t I?”

“Yeah.” Even though Bucky hadn’t had high hopes, his stomach still sinks a little. He’d been hoping for at least one or two dates, or hangouts or whatever, just to keep himself busy, and it’s a bit off-putting to get this sort of disgruntled response.

“Just how drunk was I?”

“Enough to give me your number, apparently.”

Clint must catch the irritation in Bucky’s voice, for he says, “Aww, man. Okay, listen, you totally did not have to call me, okay? I was drunk as fuck, and I clearly wasn’t thinking straight, okay? You are under _no_ obligation to, like, interact with me further than plying me with alcohol.”

“I _wanted_ to call,” Bucky says with a snort, somewhat amused despite his earlier disappointment. “You called me hot and broody and introduced me to your – uh, Natasha.”

“She’s not my Natasha,” Clint says, sounding amused at the idea. “She’s not anyone’s Natasha. She’s just… Natasha.”

“ _Stop saying Natasha and talk to him normally, jackass!”_ yells a voice in the background. Natasha’s, assumes Bucky.

“Stop eavesdropping!” Clint calls back to her, before returning to Bucky. “Sorry.”

“It’s all right,” Bucky says. “So. You wanted me to call you. I called you. Now what?”

“I don’t know?” Clint sounds somewhat uncomfortable. “I mean, I don’t do this a lot. I guess we just – I don’t know, talk?”

“Genius,” says Bucky drily. “We talk. On the phone. Yeah.”

“Aww, don’t be like that! I’m hungover, okay, show me some mercy.”

Bucky snorts. “Okay, how about this – you get yourself un-hungover, and have lunch with me? I don’t have to be at the bar until five.”

“Sounds good,” says Clint. “Where?”

“I don’t know. You know any place?”

There’s a pause, as if Clint is thinking. Then, “How about that Indian place two spaces down from the bar?”

“Sounds fine,” says Bucky. “I’ll meet you there in an hour?”

“Okay,” agrees Clint, and there is a smile in his voice. “Thanks, man,” he adds.

That takes Bucky by surprise. “What for?”

“You didn’t have to do this, you know. Call me and all that. You could’ve just written me off as drunk out of my mind and ignored me.”

“You did call me hot,” says Bucky, unable to help a grin. “And you’re sort of cute, too.”

“I am _not_ cute!” protests Clint. “I prefer the term smokin’ hot. Or smoldering. Either is fine.”

“Noted,” says Bucky with a laugh. “See you later, Clint.”

“See you later, Bucky-rhymes-with-Lucky,” replies Clint happily, and Bucky can hear the dog barking in response to his name. “No, down boy, I wasn’t talking to you—” And the line goes dead.

He grins to himself, and texts Steve before going to the bathroom to wash up, a simple **i got a date**.

* * *

He arrives at the designated restaurant five minutes early, and takes a seat near the window, close to the exit but still giving him a clear view of the whole room. It’s a habit he hasn’t been able to break himself of yet; he always needs a wall at his back and an exit point within reach so that he can feel safe. He even sleeps facing the door, his back to the wall, his bed away from the window.

Clint isn’t here yet, and Bucky sits down to wait for him. It took him some time to dress; he wasn’t sure what to wear, and in the end went for jeans and a v-neck, his hair restrained in a bun at the base of his neck. A waiter spots him and makes to come over, but Bucky gestures to him to remain where he is, indicating the empty seat across from him. Understanding, the waiter nods to him and moves to another table.

Bucky is a patient man, but when twenty minutes pass and Clint still doesn’t show up, he begins to get antsy. He debates calling Clint but decides against it, not wanting to come off overly eager, especially on the first date. Instead he settles for texting Steve.

**he still hasnt shown up**

Steve texts back almost at once.

maybe he got held up

**if thats the case then a heads up wouldve been nice**

he probably forgot? have u tried calling him

Bucky hasn’t, so he does. It goes straight to voicemail. _Aww, man, do I have to? Okay, okay. This is Clint. Call back later. Message, beep. Blah blah. LUCKY GET OFF THE BED_ — **_beep_** _!_

Bucky sighs. **no response, im leaving,** he texts Steve, and has just gotten up when the door opens and Clint rushes in, almost crashing into a table. Steadying himself with a curse, he spots Bucky and hurries over, starting to ramble before he even reaches him. “Sorry, sorry, I’m sorry, I know I’m late as fuck, but it was unavoidable – are you leaving?”

Bucky sits back down and raises both eyebrows at Clint. “Arriving late on the first date, huh? Doesn’t make a good impression.”

“I literally hit on you while drunk, so this is probably a step up,” points out Clint, taking a seat. He’s dressed casually too, wearing last night’s jeans with a plain white shirt. Bucky wonders where he got it from if he spent the night at Natasha’s. Almost before he can stop the thought from forming, he wonders if something’s ever happened between them.

“I see your point,” he concedes to Clint, willing himself to act normal. “So. How was it unavoidable?”

“I had to take a different route just in case I was being followed,” explains Clint. “And there was some traffic, so I paid the cab driver and just ran the rest of the way.” And now that he mentions it, Bucky notices he looks a little out of breath. At least he’s not sweaty, thanks to the good spell they’ve been having lately.

“So were you being followed?” asks Bucky, leaning back in his chair. The waiter from before sees Clint and begins making his way over.

Clint shrugs. “I hope not. Though I doubt they’ll try to attack me here, in public, in broad daylight.”

“I’ll protect you,” drawls Bucky. It’s only half-sarcastic; while Clint looks like he can defend himself, he’s also recovering from a tequila hangover.

Clint gives him a once-over, taking in the firm set of his shoulders, the strength built into his body from years of army training and combat. “Yeah, you look like you could kill a man with your bare hands,” he says conversationally, not even looking fazed by it. “What’re you, army? Bodybuilder? Professional date protector?”

Bucky snorts. “Ex-Army,” he tells Clint. “Steve and I were together. Afghanistan.”

“Oh.” Clint has the gall to look a little disappointed. “I was hoping you’d say professional date protector. Then at least I could tell my friends I went out with a guy who protects his dates for a living.”

The waiter’s arrived; they order lunch.

“You make _no_ sense,” Bucky informs Clint afterwards, “and also, you said you have no friends, last night.”

“That’s not true!” protests Clint. “I have, like, three friends. Three and a half, if you count my ex-wife.”

“You’re divorced?” Bucky can’t help but be surprised. Clint doesn’t look like the kind of person who can look after a potato, let alone a marriage.

Clint shrugs. “Yeah. Didn’t last too long, but it ended okay. We still text, and she’s friends with Nat and Kate too.”

“So,” Bucky says. “Your ex, Nat, and this Kate. That makes two and a half friends.”

“Bruce is the third,” explains Clint. “He’s Nat’s boyfriend. He’s super smart, and really nice. He always gets pizza on movie nights, and he never forgets exactly how much pepperoni I like.”

“Sounds like a real winner,” says Bucky drily.

“Well, Nat thinks so,” says Clint. “What about you? Any friends other than Steve?”

Bucky shrugs. “Just my army friends, I guess. There’s Sam, he was with me and Steve too. He’s cool when he’s not trying to make my life miserable, I guess. And there’s Steve’s boyfriend Tony. He’s rich as fuck and philanthropic as hell when drunk, so every time he’s at the bar everyone leaves with a ton of free shit like phones and paid college tuition and all that.”

“Cool,” says Clint with an impressed grin. “Text me next time he’s there.”

Bucky snorts. “Will do.”

Their food arrives. There is silence for a few moments as they begin eating, and then Clint asks, “How does Sam make your life miserable?”

“He _never_ pays the tab,” Bucky tells him. “He always chooses the cheesiest shit on karaoke nights, and sings it horribly. He throws napkins at the TV if his team is losing a game. He always finishes up the toilet paper in the bathrooms. The only reason I haven’t killed him yet is because Steve likes him, and killing him would make Steve sad. And when Steve is sad, Tony stops giving people free shit, which makes them mad. It’s bad for business.”

Clint laughs out loud, and it sounds open and uninhibited, and also rare, like it’s a privilege very few people get. There’s something about Clint that suggests that while he’s good at making others laugh, he doesn’t do much of it himself, and so this is nice to see. He sounds… nice. Bucky makes a mental note to try to make him laugh more often – if today works out and they make plans to go out again, that is.

“I’ve gotta meet this guy,” Clint says when he stops laughing. “He sounds great.”

“It’s honestly not that funny,” Bucky says, sounding disgruntled only to keep up appearances. “He’s terrible.”

“He sounds great,” repeats Clint, grinning, and Bucky decides, fuck it, that’s a really nice smile too.

He realizes, as he hears Clint launch into the tale of how he came to adopt his dog Lucky (“Which rhymes with Bucky,” says Clint solemnly, though his eyes are shining with mirth), that he would really like to see Clint again.

“This was nice,” he says when the date is over and they’ve split the bill.

“Yeah,” agrees Clint with a nod and a smile that comes off as a little shy. Bucky decides he likes it also. It’s a nice smile.

“Wanna do this again sometime?” he asks. “If you want to.”

“I’d like that.” Clint smiles wider. “You know, if I live that long,” he adds as he apparently recalls his little gangster situation.

Bucky snorts. “Yeah, I guess. Sure you can’t go to the cops about it?”

“They can’t do much,” Clint replies, “seeing as they’re sort of afraid of the gang too. I’d give them the building back, but that would mean everyone in it becomes homeless.”

“How’d you even buy it?” asks Bucky. The question’s been plaguing him all throughout their date. “Where did you get the money? What do you even _do_?”

Clint grins. “Oh, man, that’s another story, for another time. I’ll tell you later?”

Bucky nods, accepting this. “Okay. I’ve got to go, I wanna get a nap in before work. I’ll see you later?”

“Yeah, okay,” says Clint. “I’ll call you.”

Bucky doesn’t realize he’s smiling until he’s halfway home.

* * *

He gets a text from Clint that evening, while he’s at work.

_wanna go see a movie? we can have dinner after_

**sure** , replies Bucky. **what time?**

 _whatever is ok with you_ , texts Clint. _im ok with any time._

 **i'll let you know,** Bucky tells him.

“So,” Bucky says, while they’re waiting in line for the movie, some action flick starring Idris Elba and one of the dead ones from _Game of Thrones_ (Bucky can’t remember the name; he always confuses that guy with the other guy who plays his brother). “You never did tell me what it is you do for a living.”

Clint shrugs. “A bit of this, a bit of that. I mean, technically I work for Natasha’s security company.” He says _security company_ like one would say _rainbow-colored fruit bats_ – with the certainty that it does not exist at all. “But in reality, I just sit around on my ass all day watching Netflix with my dog. Sometimes we have pizza. Nat pays me for the hour or so per week I devote to actually doing security work.”

“What sort of security work?” Bucky does his best not to sound envious. A job that pays – really well too, apparently – for an hour of work each week? It sounds like heaven to him. He wonders if he can convince Clint to talk Nat into employing him also.

“Well, it’s like—” Clint gesticulates as he speaks, waving his cup of soda around and somehow managing not to spill any, “she gets _clients_ ,” air quotes around the word, “who need something done, like you know, kick someone out of somewhere, or like protect them for a couple days, or even sweep their house for bugs, that sort of thing. So if it’s something Nat doesn’t want to do, or doesn’t have time for, she makes me do it.”

“If you do security work,” asks Bucky, “then how come you can’t deal with the tracksuit mafia that’s on your ass?”

Clint hums thoughtfully, and then replies, “They’re too much for me to handle. Nat said she’d help but there’s only so much she can do, you know? And I don’t know want to involve anyone else, there’s no telling what these guys will do. I’m only telling you because I already blabbed when I was drunk, and that’s why _you_ know.”

Bucky turns this over in his mind, and then stores away the information for later. Already there’s a plan forming in his mind. He wonders for a moment if he should tell Clint, but decides not to when he recalls Clint saying he doesn’t want to involve people – and in any case, Clint has already moved on to a new topic of conversation.

* * *

The movie’s nothing special, just your typical clichéd action flick with lots of explosions and gunfights and manly cursing, but Bucky enjoys it anyway. It’s taken him a while to be all right with watching movies like this after coming back home, and while some scenes did make him flinch, overall he knows he’s doing better than he was before. That makes it almost worth it, knowing that slowly but surely he’s getting better.

What makes it even more worth it is Clint surreptitiously reaches over and takes his hand, and keeps holding it for the rest of the movie. Bucky wonders if that’s a romantic overture on his part, or if he noticed Bucky’s discomfort and did it as a gesture of support, but then decides it doesn’t matter – he’s okay with both. So in response he squeezes Clint’s hand back, and they sit like that for the rest of the movie, and Bucky feels easier within himself than he has in weeks.

They have dinner afterwards, again at a small diner, and it should be nothing special but Bucky finds he can’t stop feeling like he’s about to float off into the sky, and there’s nothing he can do about it. He hasn’t felt this light in a long time. It’s not even like they’re talking about important things – Clint is complaining about his dog’s bad habits, Bucky is complaining about his customers – but Bucky feels like there is something monumental happening. It feels like something shifting inside him, but he can’t put his finger on what.

So he resolves to leave it for later, when he’ll be lying in bed and inevitably analyzing every moment of this date, and instead focuses on the color of Clint’s eyes and the way he laughs at everything.

But it’s the end of the night that’s the best part. Bucky offers to drive Clint home, but Clint says, “No man, I’m not letting anyone near my place till I fix this shit,” and he looks apologetic, and Bucky gets it. He doesn’t like it, but he gets it, gets Clint’s need to keep his friends (and potential boyfriend) safe, so he nods.

“Okay, but I don’t like it,” he informs Clint. “I don’t like you being in danger.”

“It’s not _danger_ per se,” Clint says, but he’s snorting at his own words. “Okay, so maybe it is. But it’s nothing I can’t handle.”

“Yes, which is why you were drunk off your ass at the bar,” replies Bucky drily.

“Touché,” sighs Clint. “Okay, fine, it’s nothing I can’t handle after a week of panicking. That okay?”

“Better,” Bucky tells him, and grins. Clint grins back, and Bucky comes to the realization that they are standing _really_ close, like _inches-between-faces_ close, and it’s like his brain just shuts off, just stops working, and the next thing he knows he’s kissing Clinton Fucking Barton.

Clint’s lips are dry and he tastes of the dinner they just had (plus a disgusting amount of ketchup, this man is _such a mess_ ), but he’s kissing Bucky back and even though they’ve just met and been on two dates and barely know each other, it isn’t awkward or uncomfortable. Bucky has known this walking talking excuse of a functional human being for two days, and he’s kissing him like it’s the most natural thing in the world, and he feels a little drunk on the sensation.

Clint laughs a little breathlessly when they part, and says, “I think you have a crush on me,” and Bucky thinks, _shit, I actually do_.

* * *

To his credit, Bucky only spends 45 minutes in bed going over the evening, and does his best not to feel like a teenager after his first date. He even resists the urge to call Steve and tell him all about it.

He does dial Tony, though. He’s got a favor to call in.

* * *

Tony is sitting at the counter the next day, at the bar, and driving Bucky crazy as he sips at his drink between questions and snarky comments. “So,” he says more than once, “it can safely be said that your type is ‘blonds that look like Steve’, eh?”

Bucky’s answer is the same tired “Fuck off, Stark” each time. Steve, meanwhile, is alternating between glaring at them both, blushing, and aggressively sketching whatever it is he’s sketching.

“I’m just saying, Steve is hot,” Tony says.

“Literally no one is denying it, asshole, leave me alone,” grumbles Bucky, but without any real heat to it. He knows it’s all bark and no bite – Tony isn’t mean on purpose. Once he knows the recipient of his comments is aware he doesn’t mean them, he goes all out, because the man is a snark-machine 24/7 and has no mute button and nothing resembling a brain-to-mouth filter whatsoever.

“And also,” Bucky adds a moment later, just because he can’t help himself, “not everyone with blond hair and blue eyes looks like Steve.”

“Obviously,” says Tony, like the previous few minutes haven’t happened at all. “Think how creepy that would be.”

Bucky just rolls his eyes and turns to serve a customer that’s just come up to the bar. His back is still half-turned to the customer when he asks “What’ll it be?” and when a few moments pass by with no reply, he turns, ready to nudge the person along and prompt them to choose a drink.

His words die in his throat when he sees Clint, who’s looking at him like he’s hung the moon, and Natasha right behind him, who looks amused. Bucky is too busy staring at Clint to look at anyone else, but out of the corner of his eye he can see Nat turn to Tony and greet him with a dry, “Stark.”

“Romanoff,” comes the affable reply. “Looking good.”

“You two _know_ each other?” Steve sounds shocked.

“We worked together,” Tony tells him, saying _worked_ like what he means is _she beat up people for me_.

Bucky pays them no mind; he’s still looking at Clint, who is grinning widely. When the silence between them gets too loud to handle, Bucky sighs, breaks eye contact and says, “What—”

Before he can finish, Clint leans across the bar and kisses him, right there in front of everyone. Dimly Bucky can hear a lull in the conversation as the few customers they have right now see what’s going at the bar, and then the talking starts right back up, because in a bar with Sam Wilson and Tony Stark as regulars, this isn’t even the weirdest thing that’s happened.

“Not that that wasn’t nice,” says Bucky when they break apart to the sound of wolf-whistling (Tony), “but what was that for?”

Clint just grins and grins. “You know what for,” he says happily.

Bucky is taken aback for only a moment. “So you figured it out.”

Clint snorts. “No one tried to kill me this morning. Of course I figured it out.”

“You’re welcome,” interjects Tony drily. Both of them ignore him.

“Keep this one,” says Natasha, smirking. “He’s going to be useful to have around.”

“Of course I’m keeping him,” declares Clint. “His name rhymes with my dog’s, and he’s a good kisser. What’s not to love?”

“I’m flattered,” says Bucky deadpan, but there is warmth flaring up inside him, and Steve is smiling knowingly at him from Tony’s other side, and Clint’s hand is on Bucky’s arm, and he feels more alive than he ever has.

He feels like he’s going to be all right.

**Author's Note:**

> So there it is! Feedback would be lovely; please leave a comment!
> 
> You can also find me on [tumblr](http://chesterbennington.co.vu).
> 
> Love,  
> Remy x


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